Glasswrights' Progress (31 page)

“And if I don't yield to your threat?”

“The Fellowship of Jair set you upon your throne, Halaravilli Ben-Jair.”

Hal stared at the man's placid face, marveling at the utter dispassion with which he uttered treason. “Go ahead, Tasuntimanu. Finish your threat. I want to be clear, so that there is no doubt left between us. Complete your sentence.”

“The Fellowship of Jair set you upon your throne, and we will see you removed, if necessary.”

“I could have you drawn and quartered, merely for uttering such a threat.”

“Aye, Your Majesty. You could. You could have me flayed, and feed my body to your hounds. But that won't stop our Fellowship. There are members you do not know, names you cannot name. You can kill me, but you can't save yourself, not if you stray from our Fellowship in this.”

“Leave me!” Hal bellowed. “Leave this tent!”

Tasuntimanu took his time completing a proper bow, and then he departed. Hal found himself standing over the brazier, ridiculously still holding his knife, grasping his dagger in hands that trembled like an ancient crone's. He swore and thrust the blade back into its sheath.

He had known that the Fellowship had goals, that they had hopes and dreams for Morenia, for all the world. But what
would
they gain by keeping Sin Hazar on his throne? What
was
the advantage of protecting a child-murdering, treacherous, bastard? How long would Hal last in the world that the Fellowship labored to create? How long would he last, if he ignored Sin Hazar's threat?

Hal thought that the day could hardly grow worse, but that was before the company began its long trek north. Precipitation began to fall, stinging needles that were halfway between rain and sleet. Hal hunched forward on his stallion, miserably drawing his cloak nearer as he surveyed the line of men strung out along the road. A part of him longed to give up for the day, to call a halt and order his tent erected, to huddle over a hot brazier and drink mulled wine.

That halt, though, would do no good for his footsoldiers, for the entire army that was dependent on stealing from the countryside as it worked its way out of Morenia and into Amanthia. Hal set his teeth and squinted into the driving wind.

And even the weather was not the worst thing about the day. As Hal peered down the road, he could make out Puladarati riding at Tasuntimanu's side. The leonine councillor was clearly preaching to his fellow – once, Hal even saw the older man reach out his three-fingered hand and grip Tasuntimanu's reins, jerking the placid councillor closer. Hal could imagine the plotting words that passed between the men, the conspiracies that were hidden by clopping horses' hooves and the screaming wind.

Hal thought about riding forward and breaking up the conspiring pair. He held back, though, trying to bide his time. He wasn't ready to challenge his advisors. Not yet. Not until he was certain that his other lords would stand beside him.

On the long, lonely ride, Hal forced himself to ruminate on a new circle of questions. Was he merely leading this army to revenge Rani Trader's death? Or was he fulfilling his obligation to root out a known traitor, to bring Bashi to heel? Could Hal rule Morenia complacently, knowing that a wolf howled on her northern flank, a wolf that had already flashed its teeth? Hadn't Hal sworn his vows to the Fellowship well after he had sworn his princely vows to protect Morenia and keep her people safe? Did he have any choice but to ride north and face whatever awaited him? Or was he merely leading this army to revenge Rani Trader's death?

The king's thoughts were not any brighter when Tasuntimanu and Puladarati strode up to him in the gloaming evening light. Hal had watched the camp being set up around him; he had studied the early sunset that bled crimson across the horizon. “Your Majesty,” the silver-maned duke said, bowing low. Tasuntimanu mimicked the gesture a moment later.

“Aye.” Hal resented needing to move his hand closer to his knife; he resented fearing for his safety in the face of one man who had been his regent and another who was his sworn brother in the Fellowship.

“The men have marched far today. We'll cross the Amanthian border at dawn.”

“Aye.”

Puladarati gave his king a curious glance, settling one gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. The tooled leather gauntlet disguised the man's missing fingers, but Hal did not forget for one moment that the old nobleman had shed blood for the crown. For the old crown, for Shanoranvilli. But not for the boy who currently sat the throne.

“Your Majesty, I recommend that you order an extra ration of meat for all the men. It will do them good to have their bellies full, and they will be cheered by your consideration.”

“An extra ration? When we have no idea how long it will take us to march through Amanthia?”

“Precisely, Your Majesty. Your spendthrift gift will make them believe that all is well.”

Hal started to argue out of habit, but then he realized that the nobleman was right. It
would
do the men good to see that their king cared for them, was concerned about their hunger and their fatigue. And if they found no food in Amanthia, one day's meat would hardly make a difference. “Very well. Order the extra ration distributed.”

Puladarati bowed again and gestured toward Tasuntimanu. “Will you see to that, brother councillor? Oh, and Your Majesty – should I spread word that you'll review the troops tonight? Will you make your way through the campsites?”

What in the name of all the Thousand Gods were Puladarati and Tasuntimanu plotting? Did they have a cabal ensconced within the soldiers? Were they waiting to lure Hal into a trap under cover of night? Did they plan to kill Hal before Morenia was even left behind?

Puladarati cleared his throat, as if to remind Hal that he waited for a reply. “I only ask, Your Majesty, because it would raise morale. It would make the men that much stronger for the skirmishes that are certain to begin tomorrow.”

There. Hal was left without a choice. Glaring at Puladarati, Hal agreed. “Yes, then. I will review the men, after they've eaten their double ration of meat.” He could not help noting that Tasuntimanu inclined his head toward Duke Puladarati before skulking off into the night, as if the old silver-haired man were still the regent, still the voice of the king. Hal breathed a prayer to his ancestor Jair, wishing for guidance even as he longed to be back in the City, back in the palace, back in his own chambers, where he knew how to defend himself against men who would murder one king and set another upon the throne of all Morenia.

 

Shea looked up automatically from the bread line, a smile freezing across her face. “No, Serena. There isn't enough bread for everyone to have two pieces.”

The little swangirl pouted, a frown puckering the narrow space between her fair eyebrows. “But I'm still hungry.”

“Everyone is hungry, child.”

“But I'm a swan!”

The four words rang out through the camp, loud enough that Shea winced and looked about at the adult soldiers on the stockade walls. “Hush, child!” When Serena's lips started to tremble, Shea came around the table. “I'll have none of that here! Swan or lion, owl or sun, it makes no difference in the Little Army's camp.”

“But Tain said –”

“Tain said what she thought was true. Look around you, child. Do you see all these boys? Do you see how none of them has a tattoo?” Serena nodded reluctantly. “There are soldiers who would take away the girls' tattoos as well.”

“But –”

“Serena! These men want to take their knives to your face! They want to hold you down in the snow and carve the swan's wing from your cheek! They want to make it so that there is never another swan, not you or anyone else! Now take your bread and go to your tent, and leave me alone!”

As Shea caught her breath, astonished at her outburst, Serena gaped at her. Shea could see the protest written on the girl's face, her challenge that she,
she
had been the only swan in the cottage.
She
had decided Crestman's fate.

Well, just look at how that decision had turned out, Shea wanted to grumble. Just look at what had come to pass after Serena made her murderous choice.

Shea clambered back to her feet and returned to the bread table, only to find that all of the meager provisions had been distributed. She was about to gather up her apron and pull her cloak closer about her shoulders when the strange southern girl came running up to the bread line. “'urry, Shea!” The newcomer had lapsed into her odd outlander speech, the slurring that took over her words when she was excited.

“What is it, Mair?”

“They're openin' th' gates! They're lettin' us out!”

“What? Why would they do that?”

“Davin's goin' t' test 'is flyin' machine! Mon's already i' th' 'arness! 'Urry! Ye dinna want t' miss it!”

Shea waddled after the girl, pushing her way through the crowds of the Little Army. Sure enough, the guards
were
letting the children ease outside the stockade walls. They only let one child emerge at a time, though, and adult captains stood on the outside, harrying the young soldiers into straight, orderly ranks. Grown men held bows, with arrows cocked between their fingers, the strings half-pulled to their ears.

The girls, newly added to the Little Army, were slow to form their lines. They did not understand how to follow the adult officers' harsh orders. Shea watched with a touch of pride as Tain helped some of the youngest comply with the barked commands.

Shea automatically sought out Crestman, hunting for his blond braid in the crowd. In the past two months, the boy had grown several inches, and he now stood nearly a head taller than most of the little soldiers he chivvied. Her chest swelled with pride as it always did when she watched him do his job. She had been right to save the boy. She had been right to rescue the lion.

But what about Hartley, a voice whispered at the back of her mind.

What about Hartley? According to Tain, King Sin Hazar's recruiters had come upon Shea's old cottage early one morning. Tain had been dribbling meager grain into water, preparing to stir the thin gruel, when she heard the boy soldiers crash out of the woods. At first, Tain had thought that Shea had returned, leading Crestman and some of his fellows to the cottage. The sungirl had grumbled at the thought of yet
more
mouths to feed.

Tain only realized her mistake when the cottage door crashed in, tearing from its brittle leather hinges. The invaders had quickly looped ropes about the oldest sungirl, binding her arms to her sides. Tain had closed her fist about the meal she was pouring into the water; hours later, she had let Serena lick the grainy mush that had formed in the palm of her hand.

But during that morning, during the long hour when the sun rose and the water boiled away in the cauldron, the soldiers had rounded up Tain's children, Shea's children. The boys were carved away from the girls, and lengths of rope were looped around everyone's hands. A few children were gagged as they protested the invasion. Hartley, though, had been permitted to speak, permitted to command his lions into orderly submission.

The lions had listened, yes, but the owls had tried to work their debates. Torino had stepped to the middle of the floor, tilting his head quizzically at the soldiers. “Premise,” he chirped. “It is unnatural for children to bind children in an undeclared battle.”

There had been no time for another owl to reply, no time for Hartley to order Torino to silence. One of the Little Army raised his bow with a casual gesture, sighting down his arrow as if he were playing. The bow twanged, and Torino fell on the hearth, his ribcage pierced by a tufted stick, by a shaft that had looked neither long nor dangerous, until it pierced a child's chest.

If Shea closed her eyes even now, she could imagine Torino twitching on her neatly swept cottage floor. She could see the little owl struggling to draw a breath, trying to structure his final premise. She could see her other children, huddled in horror, in terror. Shea shook her head, desperate to drive away the image. It had already happened, days before. There was nothing she could do now. The girls had been marched out of the cottage, driven to King Sin Hazar's capital without time to sleep, to mourn.

And the boys? Shea did not let herself think of the boys, left behind in the cottage, bound at wrist and ankle. Certainly Father Nariom would have come from the village. Certainly the priest would have found the boys before they became too hungry. Too thirsty. Too cold. Certainly the boys were alive and well, living happy lives near the village they had always known, because the king had already met his quota for male soldiers in the Little Army.

So Shea had heard the grown soldiers say. Teleos, the mysterious general who would command the Little Army on its passage to Liantine, had declared that he needed no more boys. He wanted only girls, to balance his male troops.

Shea's sons had been spared. They still lived, back at her cottage.

She could not let herself believe otherwise.

And so, Shea followed her daughters, edging out of the stockade gate and taking up a position at the front of the Little Army, near the strange southern girls who had elbowed their way forward through the ranks.

A monstrous contraption spread across the plain outside of the stockade. Shea could make out four wings – two large ones and two smaller ones, all folded backward like the flying apparatus of a parchment moth. Between the wings was a narrow platform, a harness fashioned out of thin, whiplike tree branches. The narrow limbs had been stripped bare of leaves and wrapped many times around with strong, light willow bindings. The harness was surrounded by a thicket of ropes and pulleys; strange knobs of polished wood studded the contraption.

Davin stood beside the machine, scowling at his device. His aged hands reached out to test the engine, tugging at a rope in one place, kicking at a strut in another. All the time, he muttered to himself, glancing back and forth from the construction to a series of parchment rolls. Those rolls refused to be constrained in the growing breeze, and more than once, Davin swore as he wrestled with a wayward sketch.